Bracegirdle's Bed and Breakfast
by CookandBaker
Summary: Here, I, a lover of culture and food, seek to imagine what ordinary life (and good food) might be for Hobbits, especially female hobbits of whom little is written. This episodic story of undetermined length will, I hope, be interesting and detailed. It is meant to be a sort of combination of Mrs. Beeton, and Dickens, and Tolkien. Feedback is very much appreciated!
1. Chapter 1

I) Of the Domestic Economy of Bracegirdle's Bed and Breakfast

Mr. Bracegirdle, a stout and portly old hobbit, owned and ran one of the Shire's best inns. It was not near the Green Dragon's at all, nor was it located in Hardbottle, for Mr. Bracegirdle had broken with of his brothers and moved away from Hardbottle. Its name was Bracegirdle's Bed and Breakfast.

The whole enterprise was managed by the indiminishable Mrs. Bracegirdle, and it was at the bottom of a hill, and was a very large house, not a hobbit-hole at all, but a comfortable inn with stone walls and a thatch roof. The house was large and what we would call L-shaped, and next it to was a sizable barn.

Mrs. Bracegirdle was a no-nonsense, stiff sort of woman, very frugal and very good at business. She was tall for her hobbit, and had large hands and a large nose. Mr. Bracegirdle was a pleasant, amiable fellow who loved good food and good company. He mingled, eating and drinking with the guests and kept them in good spirits.

The house, the courtyard, and the beautiful grounds were very homely and well-kept, for Mr. and Mrs. Bracegirdle had seven daughters and then two young sons. The seven girls were well-grown, and together with Mrs. Bracegirdle kept a very tight ship indeed. There was not a domestic disturbance that ruffle _Mrs. Bracegirdle, _for they were all dealt with, with such ease and competence that could only have been dealt with by a _veteran _commander of a domestic _battalion. _

Donnamira Bracegirdle was the eldest. She was chief housekeeper, doing all the scrubbing and washing and laundry and cleaning. She had a homely, plain face and a pleasant manner about her.

Dimple was only two years younger than her sister, and was short, round and portly like her father. She was the cook of the family, and it is mostly due to her success in cookery that the Bracegirdle Bed and Breakfast become very, very popular indeed.

Daisy came next, and, because she was young, attractive and lively, found herself quite popular with the guests. She waited tables, served meals and did a lot of ironing . She loved animals, and was in charge of caring for the milk goat as well as the inn's dog, Dido. She was fair, and of a fine figure - and Mrs. Bracegirdle boasted that she was the finest dairy-maid in the country. Then came the little triplets, Lily, Laura and Linda, who were bright, sprightly and playful, but useful, for they did whatever was asked of them promptly and with no complaint.

If you were a guest at the Bracegirdle's you might have one of their cosy rooms. There would be a plaited rug on the floor, print or lace curtains, a cheerful quilt and a warm bed (a sweet mattress of straw) that smelt of lavender and field clovers. In winter, there would be a fire roaring in the hearth, and three candles lit for your especial comfort. In spring, from your window you could look out at the lush gardens (maintained by Mr. Bracegirdle, who though was an untidy gardener did make everything grow very well).

You probably would have had dinner downstairs, cooked by Dimple and served by Daisy (under the watchful eye of Mrs. Bracegirdle), had a couple of beers with Mr. Bracegirdle, and retired to your room.

Throughout the night, the sound of the crickets and the stirring of the wind would lure you into pleasant slumber, and then in the morning one of the little laddies, Minto or Mungo, would call you to breakfast, a scrumptious affair usually consisting eggs poached fried or boiled, hashed potatoes, bacon, toast with marmalade, butter or currant jam, tomatoes, and baked beans, washed down with creamy goats milk or tea.

Upstairs, Donnamira and one of the triplets would shake out your bed, dust your room, empty the chamber pot and give it a good airing. Before you went on your way, you would settle your accounts with Mrs. Bracegirdle, who counted everything thoroughly before she sent you on your way.

On any fine day at the Bracegirdle's the laundry would be done. Donnamira and one of the triplets would scrub and wring the sheets and hang them up, then Daisy would take them in, iron them the next day and do the mending. The rooms were given a good scrub down once in spring and once in autumn, but would be swept every day by the little ones.

A great deal of firewood would be needed of course, so Minty and Mungo would haul and chop them, when they weren't sent on errands.

Dimple would do the baking twice a week, on Tuesdays and Saturdays, during the afternoons. On Mondays and Fridays she went to the market, and on all the other days she cooked for all seven meals. During the summer she made preserves and sold them by the wagon to guests. And if that wasn't enough, she was running a catering enterprise of her own, for Dimple was rather like Mrs. Bracegirdle and kept a great hoard of gold coins, earned of hard work.

Not that Donnamira or Daisy weren't enterprising - Donnamira was very good at needlework, and her quilts, rugs, knitted shawls and crocheted doilies were an exhibition of their own. Daisy collected tips, and kept a few goats of her own, selling milk and cheese. The triplets would spend their free time scouring the country-side for herbs to sell to Mrs. Bracegirdle's sister, Mrs. Honoria Proudfeet, a widow, who lived nearby had a spacious still-room where she was constantly needing herbs of this or that sort, herbs that her tired old feet wouldn't let her forage for herself. She tended sick hobbits, injured hobbits, hobbit mothers, sickly hobbit babies, and any ailment of any kind. Her greatest regret was, that her husband had died in a wagon accident and that she never had any children to pass the herbal lore on to.

Mrs. Bracegirdle was very proud of her children. They were industrious and accomplished, and worked almost as hard as she did, and she did worked very hard, for nary a day did past when she wasn't sniffing out some thieving guests, mending, working stains of the bed-linen, soothing injured hobbit guests who had, in fits of revelry, danced and fallen off the dining tables, and so forth. She was laying up a good store of money for each of them, besides the wages they each collected. Nothing pleased her more in life for than for her children to be happy and well-off. Life was very, very, busy for Mrs. Bracegirdle and she was completely unprepared for the unsettling events that would unfold in the near future.


	2. Chapter 2

The owner of one of the most popular inns in the Shire suddenly found himself out of a cook. Having the most unlucky family of only three sons, and no daughters, and the missus often suffering from various ailments (she came from a wealthy and influential family and was not accustomed or inclined to work very much), Mr Boffin found himself having the most awkward dilemma of hiring cooks, housekeepers and waiters (for his lads were not up to any of those tasks). Cooks good and bad, mostly daughters of farmers, came and went very often. He came to the realization that no sooner had a new employee settled in, did she become engaged to one of the frequent guests. These pretty, innocent young lassies made for good business, of course, but still, he was hoping very much to find a permanent cook.

One day, an interesting idea or scheme popped in his mind. It startled him with its cleverness, and all at once he was taken up with the idea that he set to work at once, but of course not without nagging misgivings at the back of his mind, for hobbits are honest folk.

It was an evening in July, and by the time the seventh meal, supper, was served and spread, Dimple Bracegirdle wanted, as was almost daily the case, nothing better to do than to sit on a chair in the pantry, set her feet up upon a bench, and have a bit of bread, or biscuit or cheese, drifting off to sleep. Whenever she closed her eyes, of course she would not open them again easily, not even if there was, and there always was, an enormous mound of dishes to clean. Most nights, Mrs. Bracegirdle fondly let Dimple keep on sleeping in the pantry and would do all the supper dishes herself. In fact, Mrs. Bracegirdle found herself doing the dishes very often, and contemplated hiring, for the first time since the youngest hobbit-child was three years old, a maid, perhaps a scullery maid.

Dimple's feast tonight, however, was exceptional, even for Dimple. The inn was full of guests, and visiting hobbits from as far as Bywater (the Bywater hobbits were known to be very picky guests, though very extravagant and not prone to sparing any expenses on their holidays). There was ale, and beer brewed by Dimple herself, and the main courses included stacks of enormous beef steaks, roasted ham hocks, two roasted legs of lamb (seasoned with garlic and rosemary), three enormous geese, and five roast chickens. There were sausages and abundance, and slice after slice of a variety cured ham. Almost thirty loaves of bread were consumed, with crisp yet tender biscuits, three whole rounds of cheese, and numerous other satisfying though not dainty foods.

The vegetables garden was at its height of produce, and not a moment too soon, for there were nearly all consumed tonight in the form of buttered carrots, cauliflower and cheese, artichokes, chives and cream cheese, salads of dandelions, rockets and crispy lettuce, roasted beets, sixteen different potato dishes and so forth. There was pea soup, wild mushroom soup, leek soup, anchovy soup, pumpkin soup, cabbage soup, and who knows what else. Ladles and ladles out of a huge caldron of beef 'n' beer stew were poured out, and consumed en masse. Of course a large supply of pickles, more than sufficient o meet the demand, and fritters and hash, and fried fish, and baked salmon, and There were game pies large and small, and mince pies. And after dinner, there was served pudding (almond being of especial note), custards and jellies, apple tarts and currant tarts, jams and preserves (apricot being a favorite), light sponge cakes and heavy seed cakes (left-over from tea and demanded by guests), and many other delightful sweetmeats.

Dimple had no sooner fallen to a snore than she jerked awake. The kitchen was strangely quiet. The dishes were done, the dishwater thrown out. Slightly disorientated, she sat up and sighed. She had just been dreaming, as she was wont to, of having a hobbit-hole of her own, and a great deal of gold kept in it besides. Every tunnel and corridor would be filled with wee scampering hobbits, and the smells of nourishing vittles would be drifting down from the kitchen... Dimple pulled at the sack of gold tied beneath her underskirt and got up, moving towards the family quarters to go to bed. She blew out the kitchen lamp, and all candles but one, a simpering low tallow flame, which she clutched in her paws, and, heaving, stumbled to the bedrooms where she all but collapsed in bed.

Life continued on for Dimple as it always did, at least under 9 'o' clock the next morning, when she had a visitor in the kitchen- a thin young lad, shy, only a little older than herself but very inexperienced.

"Maid Dimple," said Ponto Boffin, shuffling his feet and looking at the ground, then lifting up his face. A smile flickered over his face and he placed a bouquet of summer flowers on the table.

Ponto took a big breath, breathed out, gasped, and then rapidly said, "There are for you, miss, from me" before retreating hastily out of the kitchen door, running as if a legion of howling wargs were after him.

Dimple was startled no doubt, but she just shook off the odd feeling by rubbing her hands with an apron, whistling, and looking around for a vase to set the flowers in. Failing to find a vase, she settled on a tall beer mug, a rare souvenir from the land of men, a pint. She set the flowers in it, set them by the window, and proceeded to forget about the whole incident as she hustled up a second breakfast.

"So, " Mr. Boffin looked up as Ponto ran breathlessly through the front door, pink with exertion (he was not given to much exercise), "How did it go?" Mr. Boffin went over and nudged Ponto, having failed to garner a response, "I..." Ponto began, stumbling over his words, ""Just did as you said, exactly as you said, sir, nothin' more." Ponto picked himself up and ran to his mother's rooms. Mr. Boffin sighed. All was not going according to plan if this was the best Ponto could do. Now if it were he himself in that position...


	3. Chapter 3

Note: Perhaps reading other fanfics on this site have got me to put a little wee bit of adventure in the story. Stories about 99% of hobbits, of course, don't include unexpected adventures.

Chapter 3: The Stranger

Dimple heard strange sounds coming from the back door. It was evening, and dinner had just been served, and supper was soon in coming. Dimple was busy, and went to see what her mother was doing. Mrs. Bracegirdle's voice was being suppressed at great effort. She was gesturing wildly in protest at a hooded figure, about a foot taller than Mrs. Bracegirdle.

"A dwarf?" thought Dimple. Strangers were rare around these parts, and regarded with much curiosity and suppressed interest.

"We are respectable inn!" protested Mrs. Bracegirdle, until her eyes fell on the pouch of gold the stranger held out.

"Please. This is all I have." The stranger's voice was soft, but it was deep and hoarse, yet almost like the neigh and whinny of a horse. It was a woman's voice, too, such likes as Dimple had never heard before.

"Come with me to the stables." said Mrs. Bracegirdle, and Dimple fled to the kitchen.

Later, Mrs. Bracegirdle entered the kitchen and shut the door. "Dimple, I need you to prepare a meal of boiled carrots, and bring it out to the stables. We have a refugee of some sort as a guest. She's paying us well, and will be staying in the stables."

"In the STABLES?" Dimple gasped.

"Shush, child, and do as I say." Mrs. Bracegirdle, "I don't know what kind of odd magic is about her, but it wouldn't do to incite anything that would... disturb the peace of the Shire."

When she brought out the food, Dimple was stopped outside the stable by the figure, her face cloaked.

"Thank you," said the stranger, and took the plate, "And I shall require feed for... my horse."

"Yes ma'am," said Dimple, "You'll find it over there." In the dark light she saw the strange woman accidentally drop the hood of her cloak, and revealed a face. It was dark and brown, not bearded like dwarves'. This was no dwarf, but a man, or rather, a woman.

Long, straight dark hair, very thick and rough, braided back "like a horse's" though Dimple, framed the stranger's face. Her nose was round and turned up a little, like a horse's as well.

"How beautiful you are!" Dimple explained in her plain way.

"What's that!" the stranger was startled and pain. She grimaced, and said, "It's years since anyone said that to me... Such a beautiful, peaceful life like you have here in this land."

Dimple felt sad for her at once, not really knowing why except for the loneliness and ache in the stranger's voice.

"Her brow's real noble, like royal-folk" thought Dimple, "Majestic, that's the word."

Dimple breathed and said, "But oh, you big folk live such exciting lives in the big world... anyway, may I ask you something?"

"Our lives are tumoltous, and long, and uneasy. I have traveled far, or rather have been taken far, and have seen far more than I wish too." the stranger said, as if not seeing Dimple.

"May I see your horse, later?" Dimple proceed with her question. She did not understand what the stranger said, and continued on eagerly, "We don't see much of them in the Shire, only ponies."

"My horse," said the stranger in a strange way, as if the word was funny to her, "Is small, and also what I believe you will also call beautiful. Blacken... is what she is called. You may come to see her later, after... I have tended to her. I would like some time in the stable alone, please."

The stranger smiled at Dimple,

"At your service... Miss."

"Dimple Bracegirdle, at yours." Dimple replied, quite in awe, and scuttled away.

After supper, she remembered the stranger's promise and hurried to the stables. The light was out and no one was there but a horse that Dimple knew at once was Blacken.

"You're beautiful," Dimple breathed, approaching the horse with a bit of carrot-peel, "Your colours are just like your mistresses, why, your hair is like hers as well. You're so pretty. She must love you so much." Dimple stroked the horse and sat down next to it as it lay in the stable-pen. Dimple quite forget the time, and continued to stroke it, as it neighed and enjoyed her attentions.

Soon, Dimple fell asleep, curled up in the warm hay in the stable, until the light of the morning came. When Dimple awoke, the horse was gone and the stranger was there, standing at the entrance to the stables, looking outside.

"You spent the night here with... my horse," she murmured, "It must have been lovely. Many days have I not... have I spent with her out in the wild."

"Such a fine horse, ma'am." Dimple breathed, and rubbed her eyes.

"I suppose you have work to do, " the stranger said, "And I have, business."

"Why yes I do," and Dimple got up and shook the hay off her dress, saying, "Where were you last night? I thought you were to sleep in the stable and I waited to meet you. How long will you stay with us?" Dimple asked several questions at once.

"Did you not know, "the stranger ignored Dimple's first question, "that I will be staying here for a fortnight?"

"Well, that's nice!" Dimple was rushing off, "Good morning, and I'm glad, that you're staying here I mean, ma'am."

"Staying here..." murmured the stranger, "Until the darkness is past... at least... a short respite," before she broke off in a number of coughs.


	4. Chapter 4

_Thank for Sabretooth Ladybird for your kind reviews! I'm glad you enjoyed it! I shall be continuing the Dimple's hobbit-style romantic story-line, more on the Blacken storyline will be disclosed further, gradually, as Dimple recalls then through flashbacks._

** Chapter 4: Tom Stops By**

Dimple sighed as she saw one, who one month ago had been a stranger to her, walk off, leaving the Shire perhaps forever, making her way to the lands beyond the Misty Mountains. It was dawn, and they had said their last goodbyes the night before. Dimple shook her head - what a strange tale the story of Blacken was! How tragic. She had never heard such likes of it before, and knew quite well what Ma Bracegirdle would think if she caught wind of it. Ma would be horrified to know who (or what) Blacken really was. How very exciting and adventurous - many hobbit-lings could have been enthralled by it, if only it were Dimple's to tell.

But, sighed Dimple, it was not. But it did make Dimple's life interesting, for as she did dull things (like peel a whole sack of potatoes), she remembered every vivid word of Blacken. Blacken and her had become such good friends, and had spent many evenings in the woods together.

Dimple's eyes had been opened to the world beyond the Shire, the cold, cruel, world that was far for being peaceful, innocent and beautiful. Dimple heard of elves and orcs, and shivered especially at the doings of the orcs.

"Do such things really happen in this same earth," thought Dimple incredulously. She couldn't have imagined what the world like that, outside the Shire was, for the Shire seemed like a beautiful, quiet world of its own, untouched by the big events of the big folk beyond its borders.

Dimple's thoughts turned to more Hobbit-like matters, as she now had a guest in her kitchen. The farrier's apprentice, Tom, often came by the kitchens after seeing to the horses lodged in the inn. He was a typical, good-hearted hobbit with a love for food, and Dimple quite admired him for he was friendly and behaved quite like a grown-up gentleman, in the hobbit sense, which is to be a respectable, to be polite, and to enjoy all the things that hobbits did (pipeweed, ale and food, in general). Dimple chatted in a friendly way with him and gave him a bit of seed cake to snack on.

Tom was going on about a special piece of iron-work he had seen, the work of dwarves. It was a rare sight.

"Such a beauty, " said Tom, "I've never seen such designs before, of bronze and copper."

Tom sighed. He was always doing dull, plain, ordinary things that hobbits needed in the forge, mostly horses's shoes. A part of him wanted to be a proper blacksmith and make things of intricate craftsmenship, not just plain doorknockers and pots and pans. But what use would that be in the Shire? Things were made to last here. Hobbit craftsmanship was quiant and solid, not majestic and grand like those of dwarves, or graceful and curving that those of the elves. Tom never got to make swords and axes to be used in battle, and he had only heard of, but never seen, precious gems, led alone imaging setting them into products.

His eye fell on one of Dimple's pans that was badly mishapen, quite possibly from subduing intoxicated guests (hobbits were quite hard in the head). He thought of offering to fix it for Dimple, and imagined how grateful she would be... or perhaps, he could even make her a new set if he had the time. Then he would bring it to her in the evening when she was free, and they would talk, and they...

Tom suddenly noticed the flowers Ponto Boffin had left, as Ponto did, every single week, in a vase by the window.

Dimple regarded Ponto's weekly pilgrimages and offerings with a maternal sort of patience. She wondered at the special attention the lad was giving. Really! Flowers every week! He had been terribly shy as first. His paws were so sweaty, the stems of the flowers were moist. Dimple felt sorry for the shy, trembling boy, small for his age and undoubtably very innocent. He was dreadfully afraid of her and quite uncomfortable in the kitchen.

"What's going on?" asked Tom as suspiciously as a hobbit could, "Do you... did someone... are you..."

Dimple looked up from the table where she was sprinkling flour, followed his gaze to the flowers on the window and gave a exasperated snort which made a puff of flour land on Tom, which made him sneeze.

"It's from Ponto, the lad gives them to me every week!" muttered Dimple as she shaped the bread dough into rolls, getting flour all over herself in the process, "I don't see why, for I know quite well he's been staring at the Ticklefoot girl with starry eyes every since he was ten years old!"

"Does he fancy... you?" stuttered Tom, turning red, "Do you..."

"No, we have nothing going on, Tom, " Dimple laughed, "Little Ponto's obviously been put up to it, for a dare of some sort I suppose. He's as scared of me as he is of his own grandmother."

Tom nodded in comprehension. Old Mrs. Boffins was a formidable hobbit. He was a little relieved to hear that Dimple was yet unattached, but before he would relax, Mrs. Bracegirdle came bustling in the kitchen.

"Tom? Having a sit-in, are you?" she looked at him suspiciously, then made up her mind to keep an eye on him due to the guilty, embarassed flush that crossed his face, "You should be going. They'll be wanting you at the forge."

Tom scuttered away to the forge, down one of the fastest roads, his hairy feet swiftly plodding. Halfway, he turned back to get his tools from the Bracegirdles' stables. Making his way back again, he came across Ponto Boffins, puffing along the road pushing a wheelbarrow full of vegetables and mushrooms from the market.

"Time to find out the truth..." Tom thought firmly. 


	5. Chapter 5

Thank you for much for your reviews, Kcaelle! So nice to know that the story is enjoyed! I was just thinking about P&P when I wrote that chapter.

I've added in a mention of the youngest sister, and bit of the younger siblings as well. They'll get their own storylines too eventually.

**Chapter 5: The Scourge of Autumn **

Whatever it is said of Hobbits, it is certainly true that they are a close-knit community, where the doings of one are expected to include the involvement and knowledge of others. Indeed, nothing ever happens, that does not happen to one's close or distant kin, and without one hearing of it very soon after or even before it occurs.

Donnamira was sitting by the fire. It was nearly harvest-time, and visitors to the inn were lesser in number. All respectable hobbits were busily preoccupied or busily seeking preoccupation with the necessities of the season, even if one were a farrier or a barkeeper, one had to maintain an image of being engaged in the general activity and buzz of the harvest.

So the autumn-scourge, as hobbit-hole-wives called the spring-cleaning of autumn with a note of battle-worn cynicism, had begun. The scarcity of guests made it imperative for a thorough cleaning to be conducted, for every nook and corner to be swept and scoured and scrubbed and aired, and all the linen and bedding and rugs to be washed or beaten, dried, ironed and mended. But hobbits are scurrying creatures. When they work, they work very quickly on their feet and hands, and everyone was prim and proper and in place before Donnamira knew what she was doing. In fact, she hardly had to think about the work and it was already done, of course with the aid of her little apprentices, Lily, Laura and Linda. They sang little tunes, thinking of the coming winter.

_Oh, winter is coming,_  
_Tra-la-la,_  
_The cold and the storm, _  
_Tra-lalala,_  
_The snow and the frost,_  
_Tra-lalala, Tra-lalala, Lalala._

_Oh, good days are coming,_  
_Tra-la-la_  
_Warm nights by the fire,_  
_Tra-lalala,_  
_We'll sing to the good days to come, _  
_And the coming of spring,_  
_Tra-lalalala, Tra-lala, Tra-tra-lalala._

And of course songs were often sung about cleaning - the beating and airing of rugs for example:

_Pat-a-pat! Mat-oh-mat! _  
_Dust begone, Whack! Whack!_

_Beat the rugs until they cry, _  
_And they're light as a feather, by and by, _  
_No matter the weather,_  
_Oh - the autumn scourge is upon us,_

_Beat the rugs, _  
_Beat them again,_  
_Never mind if they squeal in pain._

_Pat-a-pat! Mat-oh-mat! _  
_Dust begone, Whack! Whack!_

Donnamira was piecing together fleece, flannel and linen, working the needles quickly and deftly, not only hemming with fine, tiny little stitches, stitches unique to the sturdy and quaint needlework of hobbits, but also doing sweet and homely embroidery with colored flosses, the fine and pretty work she was known for.

It wasn't for her glory-box. Goodness, that was full to the brim already with all manner of sewn, knitted, tatted, stitched, embroidered, pieced, and quilted pieces. No, she was busy making more things for the guestrooms, and also a winter coat for the littlest Bracegirdle, Ellie, who had outgrown last winter's baby-gowns so very quickly. This year, she would get a proper coat and hood and mittens. Hand-me-downs from the triplets never lasted long, for there were three of them, and they put so much wear on their clothes that the material could only be reused as rags for cleaning.

Dimple was envious of Donnamira, so efficient and rested. Dimple, when she was busy, was not calm and collected and capable. No, Dimple was rather chaotic and calamitous. The kitchen would be abuzz with pots boiling over and spilling everywhere, and flour dispersed over every uncovered surface, and sticky stains appearing like the plague in all expected and unexpected places, of all shades of the rainbow and of dubious origin. When Dimple was busy, they would be a great symphony of banging and clashing coming from the kitchen. Yes, the food did make its way to the serving table, beautiful and bright and clean, but the kitchen was be in SUCH a state... as can only be described by the wringing of Mrs. Bracegirdle's hands.

Dimple did not have any little apprentices or assistants either, at least not after a serious of failed attempts at employing Minty and Mungo (no one dares to speak of it in front of Dimple). Unlike Donnamira, she worked mostly alone, or with her mother.

And it was nearly harvest, so soon peaches , apricots, apples, tomatoes, damsons, berries and all manner of produce would be making their way to her kitchen to be peeled and boiled and jammed and bottled. Dimple braced herself and began to get the kitchen in shape, and make up lists of sugar and spices other supplies she would need and retrieve the satchel of recipes from the depths of the larder, to organize and

The satchel was a leather bag, full of scrawled and scribbled or neatly copied recipes for jams and other preserves (depending on Dimple's mood at the time of inscription). She had a smattering of mental notes to add to them as well, such as

"Don't double Mrs. Baggin's strawberry jam recipe - it doesn't work doubled."

and

"Never, ever, make the Proudfoot apricot preserve recipe again. The most dismal failure of my entire cooking career."

Unfortunately for Dimple, if she didn't write down those reminders, she would make the same mistakes again, which explains why the unfortunate Proudfeet recipe found its way into the Bracegirdle preserve-cabinet for the fourth time last autumn.

Romance, courting and such things were far from most hobbits' minds in the autumn, with the exception of a few most indecorously infatuated younglings. No, winter and spring were the seasons for such things (usually winter for courting, spring for marrying), and anyone who acted on their, ahem, impulses, during this season would be seen as highly improper and regarded as most foolish and indiscreet in the minds of hobbits, no matter if the same actions were applauded during spring.

If it were spring, it would be quite appropriate for me to tell you that hobbits find their mates very quickly and easily, and settle down and become happy very naturally as well. But now, seeing that it is autumn, you must blush, flash a disapproving frown, and pretend that such indecencies were not told to you.

The chances were, according to most forecasts, Donnamira would be quite in demand this winter. Upon the subject of Dimple, however, things were not so clear. Ponto Boffins had appropriately ceased his attentions, and half would wager he would resume them in winter, and half would wager that after a certain conversation with a certain farrier's apprentice, whereby it is said (and I tell you under most strict confidence) that he confessed to being put up to the whole thing by his father.

That is indeed the truth, and after Tom had, seemingly casually got him to bring the matter up himself, Tom was rather relieved. At the back of his mind he stored this information up, and even allowed himself to start making plans for the winter.

Dimple was making plans, but she had no inkling about the matters of romance. An idea had quite sprung into her mind one afternoon after a peaceful and sonorous nap by the kitchen sink, to find herself an apprentice (but no, not like the last attempts, which was still a sore point, but proper house-trained hobbit girls in their tweens). She put the idea by Mrs. Bracegirdle, who approved of the idea tremendously and put word a few of her friends that evening without telling Dimple that evening, and by supper, news had spread to every hobbit hole in an hour's walking distance, and would continue spreading even after nightfall.

Indeed, Mrs. Bracegirdle had thought up it before, but was uncharacteristically afraid of bringing up with Dimple. Even the mere suggestion of hiring a scullery maid had her bristling not three months ago.

An apprenticeship with Dimple Bracegirdle, cook extraordinaire, was seen as a rare privilege. So, like Ponto Boffins, most of the hobbit-maids that appeared shyly at the Bracegirdle's back door (under the guise of seeking some to copy some recipe) were solely sent on compulsion of their mothers. A few did realize, however, at the back of their minds, that the cooking skills of Dimple would make them most desirable.


	6. Chapter 6

Thanks again for reviews. I don't know what you guys will think of this chapter, but I feel I had to write at least a little summary of the mysterious stranger's history. I'm not very pleased with how it short and brief it is, though. More can be added, later.

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Chapter 6: The Skin-Changer

Dimple was at the end of her wits. It really was impossible to be pleasant, or good-tempered, or patient, no after a whole day of repeating instructions, repeatedly demonstrating simple tasks and trying to keep track of three apprentices. And they hadn't much to show for all the worry, either, only six loaves of bread from a whole day's work. She was glad the inn was closed for two weeks. Thank goodness, for they wouldn't be ready to start cooking seven meals a day any time soon.

Dimple set them to clean the kitchen and then go to bed. Mrs. Bracegirdle had insisted that she leave the cleaning to the three giggling girls, and head off to bed. Dimple didn't think she could stand another giggle without saying something rude, for she had managed to be even-tempered and pleasant the entire working day so far.

What does Dimple think of on nights she was tired? Mainly of food. But since the time Blacken had spent with them, she liked to imagine and reimagine Blacken's stories. So that's what she did, after wiping her face clean with a towel and getting out of her new apron and cap (they didn't look quite as new after one day's work) – she lay in bed, blew out the candles, and enjoyed recalling Blacken's stories as she drifted off to sleep.

Blacken had told her up growing in a happy home in the plains and of her subsequent life and adventures, a tale told with words that were filled with strong, raw emotion – love, anger, hurt, pain, and many others. These stories were unsettling, and yet, strangely appealing to Dimple. It was like a challenge to Dimple to imagine what Blacken had told her, for she had never seen orcs, or known what other lands and forests and plains looked like beyond the Shire.

_I was one of many, many children. We were so happy. Pa and Ma kept many animals – bees, goats, ponies. All we did was run, and play, and play with the animals, and run some more. We ran and ran and ran together, galloping over the plains. We played pranks and chased each other. Maiern, my friend - he was full of fun ideas. Ma let me play with her, because she was fierce and could protect me. You see, Dimple, we were a small village of skin-changers, and Maiern took the form of a bear. I, was the form of a horse. We loved to run in the wilds together, and she, though fast, barely kept up with me. I nuzzled on hay, and she loved honey and wild berries the best. _

_One day we ran to the edge of the plain when we were nearly attacked by the ugliest creatures we'ed ever seen. They smelt foul. Maiern could smell them a mile away, from our vantage-point on a rock, and we immediately fled back home, terrified. They were covered with grosteque scars, tumours, warts and all ugly things. We only knew beauty up till then, the beauty of the wild and of animals and of nature. I ran home, wishing to never see an orc again. _

_We didn't known what they were, of course, only that they were evil. Maiern's Pa was furious. He roared and declared those foul creatures were orcs. _

_Two days later, the orcs and wargs attacked were too many of them, and too few of us. We fought – bears and horses and other creatures – but they shot us with arrows that made us sleep. They tied us up, and I was taken away from Ma and Pa and my brothers and sisters. I was blindfolded, and they took us to the hate-filled orc settlements, where nothing grew and the sun never shone. I barely could eat anything, and I was tortured beyond description. _

_I can say this now without feeling, because after so long, I feel like I was dead. During those long years in captivity I was dead. My skins were flogged and ripped and torn apart. Many of us died trying to run away. They cruelly exposed me to the wind, and paraded us in their perverse ways. What a sport, what a rarity! I was worth a high price to these orcs, for skin-changers were a never-ending source of dark amusement to them. _

_Once two men came to the orc settlement, an army of men having defeated the orcs. They saw me, a poor young girl, and took me home. I was dumb, and beaten, and marred beyon recognition. They took me home, and I was loved. They tended to my wounds, thinking I was one of them. But a few moons later, when they learned who I was and when I had learned to speak, they were so shocked and horrified I was thrown out of the town and into the orc-infested woods. _

_I saw many things and learned many things in the human towns. As a last resort, I had begged the dwarves who lived as outcasts themselves in that town, take me in, but they would not. They cursed me and said I was a child of witchcraft. They let the men throw me out and did nothing. They were afraid of what they could not understand, just like those men._

_I was terrified in those woods, I ran for days until I collapsed. That was the second time I believed I died, but I didn't. A brown wizard took me in and nursed me back to life. With his power, he made my skin like new, until the scars and wounds melted away and new flesh grew. He taught me of who I was and the power I had. A new life was given to me, and a new home, but this was not for long. The forest air was too dark for a horse, and nothing grew that I could eat. So I had to leave, if not, I would die in that forest. I belonged on the plains. The brown wizard gave me a sack of gold, and told me to go to find a new, safe place to live. _

_And so I came here, for according to the brown wizard, a grey wizard had told him this was a beautiful, fresh, land. Something worth seeing once in a lifetime. But I cannot stay long, for as soon as even you lovely folk know what creature I am, I will be thrown out and shunned. I am staying for a time, in a land where happiness is, where you halflings love life, and living things, and things that grow and live and move. Where there are happy homes, and love, and compassion. _

_I must leave. I am going to run, and run, and never stop, until I reach the East. I want to run away from this world, in which there is so much good, and so much evil, and of which I can never be a part. Perhaps I will run until the edge of the world, and see worlds beyond this one, I do not know.  
_

_You cannot ask me to stay, Dimple. I cannot stay. I am not of these lands, though I wish I were. I am part-Man, part-horse. And I am in all likelihood the last of my kind._

_I hear the wind, it is calling me. It is calling me far, far away in the plains of the East, where all things pass out of memory and are forgotten. Farewell, my friend, for I will likely never see you again. My heart longs to go East and I am almost certain I shall not return. _

_Telling you of these things, Dimple, makes me feel better as you're such a good listener. Its as if I am telling myself that if I could live through that, I can go on living. But the question is, what is there left to live for... and where should I live. _

Dimple always listened with wide eyes, taking everything in. She didn't know to ask too many questions, but she was a good-hearted, simple, trusting hobbit. And that was why Blacken trusted her immediately.

Blacken was beautiful but quiet as a horse. As a man, she was dignified and yet wild, amusing and yet serious, aged and yet young. There was something, just something about her person that made Dimple keep looking at her and keep looking for her in during her spare time.


End file.
